


Survival

by Evalie_Soto (Missalyssasecret)



Category: Star Trek: Discovery
Genre: "Terra Firma" Mirror Universe, Awkward Flirting, Canon-Typical Violence, Developing Relationship, Eventual Smut, M/M, Mild Blood, Mirror Universe (Star Trek), Paul Stamets is confused, space boos
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-31
Updated: 2021-02-17
Packaged: 2021-03-10 21:26:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 20,019
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28443885
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Missalyssasecret/pseuds/Evalie_Soto
Summary: Terrans have a peculiar way of expressing love.  How Mirror!Hugh and Mirror!Paul's relationship started - attempted murder interrupted by a horribly attractive and deadly Imperial physician.  Paul just wants to be left alone with his research, but Hugh keeps sending him expensive gifts and offering to kill people who get in his way.Expansion by popular request of my "Terra Firma" Mirror Universe snippets originally posted in We Go Together.
Relationships: Hugh Culber/Paul Stamets, Mirror Hugh Culber/Mirror Paul Stamets
Comments: 130
Kudos: 103





	1. Survival, Parts One to Four

**Author's Note:**

> **Deep breath** I'm starting yet another multi-chapter fic when I already have four going, which either means I've lost my mind (likely) or Culmets is just that inspirational (yes). I blame Wilson's silent but menacing portrayal of Mirror!Hugh for all of this, especially the eyeliner.
> 
> “Terra Firma, Part One” suggested different dynamics between Mirror!Paul and Mirror!Hugh than the tragic ones I’ve written for Goodbye, Sweetheart and When Sorrow Turns to Joy.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **** Previously posted as [Chapters 155-158 ("Survival, Parts One to Four")](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22217656/chapters/68887854) in We Go Together ****
> 
> How does a scientist make his way in the Empire? And why in the world is an Imperial physician sending him gifts?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Typical Mirror Universe violence and its disturbing implications.
> 
> Warning for blood, discussion of torture, strangulation, and murder (mostly in self-defense).

Paul’s sitting in a darkened corner of the bar - with his back quite literally _in_ the corner - surveying the crowd as he waits for Straal to arrive. He's slowly drinking something with a much lower alcohol content than he would have in the privacy of his own quarters, glowering at anyone who passes within a couple of meters of his table. It’s not his preferred location for a meeting, and his interest in ‘socializing’ with his current superior and former research partner is nonexistent. 

Across the room amidst the smoke and low lights, a flash of red catches his eye. Paul simultaneously licks his lips and mentally cringes.

_Fuck._

Dr. Hugh Culber, master of poisons and a reported artisanal skill in torment with a laser scalpel, is one of the last people Paul would expect to see here. He can't imagine any of the medical personnel frequenting this no-name bar, much less one this high in Imperial favor. 

Imperial physicians are as a rule deadly, their knowledge of anatomy and physiology in high demand as interrogators. Culber in particular is whispered to be as vicious as he is attractive, moving with a surety that Paul envies, his reputation clearing a space around him. He's also in possession of a peculiar sort of honor: not violent for the sake of it and never reneging on his word, but those who tried to betray him tended to show up dead or dying in various degrees of agony. Others demand respect, but Culber commands it, an Imperial weapon of needle prick accuracy. Add to that his cold competence, muscular shoulders, and deft hands, and Paul's busy willing down his dick when it gives a hopeful twitch. 

_Stop staring Stamets, you do **not** want his attention._

It’s difficult. Were he anyone else, Paul might consider making an offer just to burn the inconvenient lust out and move on. Lust is a rare experience for him, far too distracting, and he's spent over three decades leaving behind anything that could be turned back against him. Culber’s simply too dangerous to approach, because Paul would very much like to not have a convenient accident if his offer is rejected. He has no intention of ending up a test subject for Culber’s latest lethal cocktail, and eventually his dick will get with the program and quit tempting him to do something stupid every time he glimpses those kohl-painted eyes and lush cupid's bow lips.

Movement to his right, and the hand resting on his thigh under the table moves to hover over his phaser.

”Hello, Paul.”

His fingers relax fractionally.

”Straal.”

He seems to be in an extremely good mood tonight, and Paul wonders which subordinate’s experiment he sabotaged or ensign he punched for not showing him enough deference. Straal’s been insufferable since he blew a hole the size of a fist in Commander Khorov’s chest two months ago with a centrifuge 'malfunction'. He’s always been an arrogant bastard, but after his self-made promotion he’d wasted no time in making it quite clear where Paul stood in the hierarchy of things. Paul thinks he could have dealt with Straal’s latest bit of power hungry avarice if he didn’t suddenly start claiming credit for all of Paul’s work and blaming him for his own abysmal failures.

If he were a different kind of man, Straal would be facedown in a gutter somewhere with significantly less blood and no heartbeat. Fortunately for him, every time Paul considers solutions to the problem he remembers the promise they made at the Academy, to always have each other’s back. At the time, it seemed like a wise investment, strength in numbers as they made their way as scientists in an Empire that prized soldiers. He should have known that Straal would abandon him at the first opportunity, but ten years of supposed trust is hard to overlook.

That might be something he needs to leave behind as well, if he's ever going to find stable patronage for his work.

“You know-“

Whatever Straal is about to say is interrupted by his comm. He shrugs and heads to one of the soundproof alcoves to take it, and Paul can’t say he’s sorry to be alone again.

More purposeful movement coming his direction.

”Hello.”

The speaker looks barely old enough to have survived the Academy, but he’s apparently confident enough to approach a Lieutenant Commander in a bar. Paul's hand twitches back towards his phaser.

”Who are you?”

”Cam.”

”Mmm.”

He sits down across from Paul without an invitation. 

“Aren’t you going to tell me your name?”

”No.”

”Well, I suppose I’ll just have to make you yell mine.”

Paul doesn’t bother resisting the urge to roll his eyes at the clichéd proposition. Cam’s in uniform and doesn’t look like a licensed professional seeking business - too bad, because he might have availed himself of it for a physical release - which means he either knows exactly who Paul is and is currying for some sort of favor (likely), or he’s genuinely interested (extremely unlikely). Neither option seems particularly worthy of a response. 

“Not interested.”

“Oh, I bet you are.”

He gives him his coldest stare. 

”Fuck off.”

It takes a few seconds, but eventually he gets the message and leaves. 

Whatever it is has Straal still on his comm ten minutes later. Paul’s drink is empty, he’s not stupid enough to order another at this hour, and Culber’s glanced his direction at least five times. 

_Definitely time to leave._

Straal will just have to tell him whatever it is tomorrow, he decides, pushing his chair back and shouldering through the crowd. The spaceport is relatively empty for once, and he briskly heads for the end of the no-transport zone. He’s almost there when the sound of footsteps behind him land his hand back on his phaser yet again.

Paul turns and has just enough time to open his mouth to tell Cam to fuck off again when he lands a punch on the side of Paul’s head that makes his vision blur and drags him into an alley between buildings.

 _Fuck_.

Dazed, Paul fumbles for his stunner, but Cam is faster, slamming him face first into a wall with his arms twisted painfully behind him and some sort of noose around his neck.

”Don’t- you...take no...for an answer?” he forces out between beats of his throbbing temple.

Cam does something that sends lancing pain up his right arm, leaving it to dangle useless at his side. Before he can even draw a breath to curse, Cam’s now-free hand is holding Paul's own dagger at his throat.

”Should have said yes, Stamets.”

”Oh, so you do know my name.”

Paul tries to reach the stiletto in his left sleeve cuff, but his arm is pinned too tightly.

”Would have given you a nice fuck,” Cam hisses in his ear, “before you died. Pity.”

He shifts his weight to stamp on Cam’s instep, but he dodges, kicking Paul’s ankle painfully instead and tightening the noose.

”By all means, keep struggling. Turns me on.”

”Planning...to fuck. M'dead body. Then?”

The tip of the dagger digs in deeper as he gasps out the words, and he can feel the blood leaking from its shallow slice. It’s a struggle to keep his head from moving forward and cutting his own throat, but he fights it with every ounce of strength, searching for an opportunity with what oxygen he has left in his brain.

”Oh, no. They want your body intact.”

 _Shit_.

Who wants him dead that he hasn’t picked up with his intel?

Cam laughs nastily, rocking the razor edge back and forth and twisting the cord further.

“If you'd said yes, I'd have fucked you real good. Now, I’m just gonna bleed you out real slow. Or maybe I'll strangle you first. You know, some men get a hard on when they're being strangled. Think if I do it slow enough, you'll get off before you die? Watching you choke to death on it is re-“

Footsteps.

Paul pushes back, hoping his assailant might be distracted, but all it gets him is a knee pressed up into his groin in all the wrong ways that forces what little air he has left in his lungs out in an aborted cry of pain.

"Fuck off, I'm busy her-"

There’s a flash of red in his peripheral vision right before he feels a spray of hot liquid on the back of his neck, and Paul’s suddenly free of Cam’s weight and able to breathe again. That realization is followed swiftly by a sickening crunch and the the thud of a body hitting the ground, and he whirls, reaching for his phaser left-handed.

Lightning fast fingers bend his thumb backwards, and Culber smiles at him as he neatly plucks the weapon from Paul's grip.

“You really should watch your back.” 

Paul flicks a glance at either end of the alley, but it appears deserted save for the two of them and Cam’s contorted, whimpering form. He doesn't seem to be able to move anything below the neck, which is fine by Paul until he's done hopefully getting away from this situation alive.

”...thank you.”

Those kohl-rimmed eyes bore into him, amused and arresting. Culber's even more beautiful up close, smells like woodsmoke and musk, and his traitorous dick twitches again.

_Please don't be about to kill me._

”Oh, it’s my pleasure,” Culber purrs, “just passing by."

_Bullshit._

There’s something unsettling in Culber’s cheerful expression, but he can’t put his finger on it. More to the point, there are less than zero reasons why he would bother intervening in what for all intents and purposes must have looked like a personal dispute. There's not much he can say when he's down to one working arm and Culber is in possession of both his phaser and dagger. Unless...

"You two acquainted?"

He prods Cam with the toe of his boot, stepping out of the way when the action produces a pitiful gurgle and Cam coughs up blood.

"No."

Culber crouches down and grips Cam by the hair, lifting his head off the pavement. On a purely professional level, Paul has to appreciate the surgical precision of the knife wound at the base of his neck that clearly severed the spinal cord but left the victim alive.

"Amateur mistake," he chides as more blood dribbles from Cam's mouth, "too bad you won't live to learn from it."

Paul might feel sorry for those pleading eyes on someone else.

"What's that? You want me to spare you?"

Another wet, choked noise. A cold, dangerous smile spreads over Culber's lips. 

"I hope you already spent whatever they paid you for the hit. Must have been cheap, or they'd have hired a better assassin," he continues conversationally, "but I'm not in the mood to give a lesson. You're lucky I'm in a hurry, or I'd have taken the time to cut your dick off first."

Before he can react, Culber tucks Paul's phaser and dagger back into their sheaths, then he reaches for the abandoned garrote on the ground. He loops it around Cam's neck and lets go of his hair, taking the ends of the garrote in both hands and pulling them apart sharply before tying a knot. Cam's face turns a dusky scarlet, eyes bulging, and Culber nods to himself before standing.

Wiping his bloody hands on his own red uniform, he steps over Cam's still-twitching body until he's a foot away from Paul. There's surprisingly no sadistic glee on his face, just a mask of bored indifference. Were he not concerned with clearing his debt to Culber to avoid him crossing Paul's path again, he'd have long since fled the alley. 

”Anyway,” he continues as if they were having a polite conversation and he hadn't just killed a would-be assassin for a stranger, “you might want to consider keeping a closer eye on things.”

Paul’s still fumbling for something to say when Culber checks his chrono.

”Well. I've an appointment I need to get to.”

"Wait!"

Culber's half turned away, but he stops and looks back, face impassive. 

"It'll be a couple of hours till your arm is back to normal, but I wouldn't let anyone else find out."

"That's not...what do I owe you for this?"

"Nothing."

“I’m really not a fan of debts.”

He's proud of himself for not flinching away when Culber uses his sleeve cuff to swipe some of the blood off the sluggishly bleeding slice in Paul's neck.

”I know.”

Then he pats Paul's cheek and turns to leave again, tossing one last thing over his shoulder.

"Until next time, Stamets"

* * *

He doesn’t linger in the alley long after watching Culber’s departure (and he would only admit under torture to staring at the doctor’s ass in the process). The warning that whatever Cam did to his arm would take a couple of hours to wear off echoes in his head as he spends a few moments ensuring that his phaser is secure in its holster and straightening his armor. His dagger is mostly free of blood when he checks, and his memory shows him a split second of Culber wiping the blade on his own sleeve before re-sheathing it. The action seemed habitual, reflexive, and he shelves the thought for later examination. 

The last ten minutes have been most...enlightening. He definitely knows even less about Culber than he thought he did before the man appeared and effortlessly took care of Paul’s assassin problem.

_Speaking of..._

Paul checks the alley one more time before crouching over the body and rifling through his pockets. It’s a calculated risk, given that whoever paid for his death might be close by, but chances are they’re waiting comfortably somewhere if they expected to be delivered his corpse. Unfortunately, he doesn’t seem to have so much as a comm on him, and Paul doesn’t dare pocket his badge for fear of it being used to trace him. He flips it, memorizes the serial number, then tosses it a few meters further into the shadows. Then he pulls off the chest plate to examine it for concealed data chips, but it too seems to be nothing of note.

Sighing, Paul stands and uses his left hand to tuck his right thumb under the flap of his phaser holster. It’ll be obvious to anyone taking a closer look, but it ought to do well enough for a casual glance to assume he’s simply another paranoid Imperial with his hand on his weapon. There’s not much he can do about the blood on his face, although that’s hardly something remarkable. 

He spares a glance at Cam before walking away, dispassionately taking in the horribly purpled face above the garrote tied around his neck. There’s a rapidly fading spark of life in his glassy eyes under the burst capillaries. Paul briefly considers slitting his throat, but it’s a courtesy his would-be murderer doesn’t deserve and he’ll be completely dead in a few minutes anyway. 

Heading towards the nearest transport point at a brisk walk, he resists the urge to rub at his cheek where Culber touched him.

****

Straal, predictably, laughs when Paul mentions the attempted murder. He doesn’t say anything about Culber’s part, just tells Straal he left a body in a back alley and locks himself in his lab with every security measure armed.

Over the next few days, Paul makes some discreet inquiries about Hugh Culber. They don’t turn up much more than he already knows, and he’s left two hundred credits poorer with only the additional discovery that Culber prefers paid companions and seems to have never had an additional fee levied on him for excessive injury. 

Worse, no one seems to have any inkling who might have it out for him. A search of the serial number on Cam’s badge turns up nothing, and he wonders if the uniform was simply misdirection. Paul doesn’t like loose ends, and can’t think of any left unaccounted for. He’d suspect Straal, eager to claim full credit, if not for the fact that he’s not been able to reproduce Paul's results and killing him won’t change that. 

This week hasn’t been wonderful scientifically either, although he’s not stupid enough to suggest he’s anything but on track with his experiments. He loses an entire day repairing the seals on the incubator, only to find that the batch of spores he’s been carefully culturing for months has contaminated growth medium. Paul had had to beg and scrape to get his hands on the necessary reagents, and he’s not eager to go to any of his suppliers for more when it would be only too easy for them to mention it to Straal. It leaves him in an even more snappish mood than usual, not helped by the morning he wakes up hard and humping the sheets, a vision of smoke-lined eyes flickering in his head. 

After jerking off efficiently and setting himself to rights, he’s just finished buckling on his chest plate when the door chimes. It’s 0630 and he’s not expecting anyone, so he thinks he’s more than justified holding the groveling courier at phaser point until he’s scanned the cargo container to ensure it doesn’t include any surprises. Just to be on the safe side, he erects a blast-proof forcefield around the small parcel and remotely provides a sample of his DNA. There’s a hiss of de-pressurization, then the two halves of the container pop open to reveal several vials nestled in protective foam. 

_What the hell...?_

All six of the necessary components for his growth medium stare back at him from the innocuous cargo capsule. Not only that, they’re in excess quantities that mean he won’t have to obtain more for at least a year. He scans three times before lowering the field, running a slightly shaking hand over the vials. That’s when he notices the data chip tucked in between, and he retrieves it with a pair of forceps, still too afraid to damage the precious reagents.

It’s a standard chip, new and not reused, with no identifying marks or clue as to its contents. Paul fishes out a firewalled PADD and places it on the reader. There’s no holographic message, audio file, or anything besides a single line of text:

_Appointment went well.  
_

“What the fuck?”

No one else knows the exact ratios for those reagents except him, but they’ve been presented to him in perfect proportion. The thought that someone has managed to access his data pales in comparison to the realization that the anonymous gift-giver is still the last person he wants to be indebted to.

What to do about it though?

Generally speaking, Paul takes his advantages whenever they present themselves, but never unless he’s sure of the potential consequences. Over the years, plenty of others tended to sneer and call him a coward; he ignores them and is happily still alive while many of them aren’t. Nothing in the Empire is free, in his experience, always strings attached or a knife in the dark. Which is why he carefully seals the capsule up again and retreats to his bedroom to think.

Culber had in all apparent sincerity brushed off Paul’s offer to settle the obligation created by literally saving his life. Paul had placed him on the mental list of people to keep an eye out for a way to return a favor if the opportunity arose - not out of altruism, but self-preservation. This though... 

Negotiating for a few microliters at a time cost an inordinate amount of credits plus completing the transaction with time spent on his knees when currency wasn’t enough. Killing someone is business as usual, but obtaining half-liter quantities of these bio-chemicals in top quality is, frankly, worth more than Paul’s life.

_What does he expect in return?_

There’s a very small possibility that it’s not Culber, although he can’t imagine who else would have the connections and the still-unknown desire to provide them to Paul. Recompense in the form of credits is laughable, and he doubts his particular skillset would be of interest to an Imperial physician who already has access to most any resources he needs. He’s not a poisoner of Culber’s caliber or a weapons developer, nothing he could barter with. 

That really only leaves offering his body in trade. His dick is certainly interested in that option, despite the inherent suicidal danger of engaging with Culber. And he’s not possessed of enough sexual prowess to be any sort of prize, not when his skills were mostly learned of necessity.

Culber mentioned an appointment in the alley, but it can’t possibly be for these? That would mean he had to have arranged for them well in advance of their meeting. Paul toys with and discards the idea that Culber could have been the one to set Cam on him with the intention of killing him as a demonstration. 

Regardless of motivation, he needs to acknowledge it. He’s about to reach for his PADD when his comm buzzes, setting his heart racing. The frequency is encrypted, but half of his contacts are more than capable of obscuring their digital identity.

”Stamets.”

_”Did you open it yet?”_

”...Culber?”

Paul’s not sure if he’s surprised or if it all makes too much sense.

” _Yes_.”

“I’ve opened it. You-“

” _Are the amounts correct?”_

Culber’s question almost has a hint of uncertainty about it, but that’s impossible.

“Yes. But-“

” _Oh, good. Let me know if you need more._ ”

He opens his mouth to respond, but nothing comes out as he stares at the comm in his hands.

_”Stamets?”_

“No! I mean, for- that’s...yeah. What,” he has to pause and clear his throat, “what do you want?”

” _Want_?”

“In return for a year’s worth of reagents I’ve had to sell my ass to scrape together even a fraction of, what do you want in exchange for them?”

“ _Oh. Nothing.”_

“What?”

_”Consider it a gift. You-“_

Culber’s voice is drowned out by an agonized scream somewhere nearby.

” _Sorry, I’d love to stay and chat.”_

That’s the first time Paul’s ever heard that statement made without a trace of sarcasm.

What the hell is Culber playing at?

“You can’t just-“

” _Have to go. Watch your back, Stamets.”_

Culber disconnects before Paul can say anything else. He closes the comm and stares at the capsule with its precious contents.

“What. The. Fuck.”

* * *

Paul spends most of the next night staring at the vials on his table, unable to sleep. In the morning, he stares at himself long and hard in the mirror, trying to objectively evaluate if Culber could possibly be interested in him physically. 

For his own survival, he's spent the better part of the last three-plus decades building mannerisms to compensate for the fact that nothing about him is threatening by nature. Paul's pale, freckled skin is a liability, pinkening in easily discernible reaction to stress or fear. A black eye or cut lip looked intimidating on others, but glowed an obvious and ugly red on him. The cursed slenderness of his youth is thickening, and not in a way that enables him to use seduction as a strategy, not that it was ever a successful thing. He's been told - by a professional he paid for a night who didn't have any reason to lie once the credits were transferred - that his eyes are striking, but it could have simply been empty flattery in the hopes of engaging a repeat client who didn't expect anything but an orgasm and minimal conversation. 

It's absurd, really. 

Transferring the reagents to his lab is done over the course of a week, separately and in much smaller aliquotted quantities to prevent Straal or any of the lab techs realizing he'd obtained them through anything but the usual means. He takes a perverse sort of pleasure, actually, watching Straal frown in consternation when he can't determine where Paul's sources are. The week lost regrowing the spores is tedious, but being able to augment the amounts of each component allows him to cultivate a much ore robust batch and even place some in stasis against future setbacks.

On the other hand, Paul still hasn't been able to think of an appropriate token of thanks for Culber. A comm of any sort, even if he had a frequency, speaking in more than the vaguest terms is too risky if it's intercepted, and arranging an in-person meeting when he doesn't have anything in exchange isn't going to helpful either. No, despite what Culber's said, Paul isn't eager to leave any possibility of an open debt. 

Which is also exactly why another courier arriving on his proverbial doorstep at 2300 leaves him with a sinking feeling.

This time it's an even smaller parcel no larger than his clenched fist. He takes the same precautions with this one, only lowering the field once he's sure it's inert and not a delivery of biohazardous gas or incendiary material. Paul pops the lid open carefully, half-expecting more reagents although he has more than enough now. Instead, he finds a sleek little device waiting inside, matte silver and small enough to be easily concealed in the palm of one's hand. There's no note accompanying it, but a detailed scan of its components proves it to be a neural paralyzer. What's more, he discovers that it's already coded to his bioneural signature, meaning that he's safe from its effects _and_ no one else would be able to activate it. That Culber was able to obtain and program his signature in seems practically mundane compared the fact that it's less than a quarter of the size of any he's seen even on high ranking officers. 

Paul's baffled, and it's not a feeling he's used to. The device isn't designed to malfunction and immobilize him, nor does he receive any correspondence after opening the parcel. It can't be an attempt at intimidation on Culber's part, and a demonstration of his connections would also be superfluous unless he means to engage with Paul further. 

_What could he possibly be after?_

The paralyzer doesn't have any answers for him. It does, however, fit neatly into his sleeve cuff with minimal alteration of the stiletto sheath already there. He considers that it might very well be a tracking device, but Culber clearly knows far more about Paul than the reverse and if he wanted him dead, Paul would be a cooling corpse already.

Two and a half weeks later, he puts the paralyzer into use when he finds the new lab tech trying to hack into his files. It's not a new tactic of Straal's, but this is the first time one of his minions cuts power to the lab and tries to club his face in. There's the briefest flash of orange light when the business end of the device makes contact with the bare skin on his attacker's wrist, then he collapses like a puppet with its strings cut. Paul stands over him with his phaser in hand, looking down at the fear in the tech's staring eyes and wonders if he ought to kill this one so that Straal finally figures out his tactics aren't going to work. He really doesn't enjoy killing the way some do, but it's a necessary thing sometimes. Luckily (or possibly unluckily) for the tech, Paul figures that the best way to deliver the message is out loud.

"When Straal gets here," he informs the spasming body, "tell him that he might outrank me now, but he's never been the brightest mycologist and that's not likely to change even if he kills me."

Then he leaves.

The next morning, Straal doesn't comment on the disappearance of the tech, and Paul pointedly ignores the dent in the condenser his head left when he hit the floor. He does, however, ask to see Paul's "new toy". Paul's not in the mood to oblige, offering commentary on the likelihood of bloom failure using freeze-dried spores instead that leaves Straal red-faced and fuming.

In hindsight, he wonders if he shouldn't have pushed back quite that hard. A month passes, then two with nothing more than the usual animosity. Paul submits a report with updated progress to Command, and comes in four days after that to find the door to his private lab blasted off its track and every sample container smashed on the deck. The controlled-environment units took the worst damage, Straal clearly trying to find Paul's mysterious source of components, and he's once again glad that the precious vials are safe in his quarters. He's nowhere to be found, of course, but Paul knows better than to display his rage where it will be captured in the security footage. Instead, he calmly picks through the wreckage, pocketing a few remaining data chips that avoided destruction, and heads back to his quarters.

Straal's systematic attempts to get rid of him mean that Paul's going to have to do some very thorough cleanup, because he doesn't know if Command is going to believe his version of events or just enjoy the excuse to strip Paul of his rank and privileges. They're not overly fond of him either.

It takes more groveling than he has the stomach for, but he does emerge from the latest meeting with Command with all of his limbs intact. Barely. He's not sure they're going to continue accepting his claims of sabotage, particularly when he has his doubts whether there's enough scientific competence among them to actually understand his results. Half of them are there through bloody promotion, and it's a struggle to put on a mask of arrogant indifference when he has to explain, yet again, why his work is important for the Empire. The situation is clearly untenable, and things could escalate at any time. 

At the end of the week, his comm chirps with an unencrypted but unfamiliar frequency.

"Stamets."

_"Want it taken care of?"_

"Culber."

_"Obviously."_

"I'm fine."

_"Won't be for long."_

His chest tightens at the ominous statement.

"I can handle things."

_"Fine. But the offer's open."_

"Why?"

_"Why what?"_

"All of this. Helping me. The...gifts?"

He knows better than to speak in specifics on an unsecured frequency, which is maddening.

_"I have my reasons. Do you like them?"_

"Mind sharing? And yes."

_"Oh good."_

"But-"

_"You'll figure it out."_

The comm ends abruptly. Paul should probably be worried that he's starting to think Culber sounds friendly. This can't possibly end well.

* * *

Two weeks pass, in which Paul gets frustratingly little done in the lab. Eventually, the door is repaired, with an extra layer of duranium that cost three days of work to make fifty milliliters of a powerful hallucinogen for the engineer Command begrudgingly sent to fix it. All things considered, it's worth the extra hours spent perfecting the formula just so he doesn't have to constantly check that Straal is still at his bench and is only glaring daggers his direction rather than actually attacking. It's an uneasy ceasefire, and he's left wondering what the next salvo will be. 

Things with Straal hadn't always been like this. When they were helping each other survive the spate of poisonings that took out half of their cohort in the graduate program and sharing a meticulously debugged apartment, he'd thought Justin would be a rare friend he could trust. And he had been, more or less, for a decade until Paul received his first promotion after the Lieutenant leading their project met with an actual transporter accident and Command put him in charge. Justin had congratulated him, but there was a coldness about it, as if he was recalculating an equation that had always favored him over Paul. He'd withdrawn, suddenly "busy" when Paul asked for his help on a delicate graft or "forgetting" to change the growth medium on only Paul's batch of mushrooms.

At the time, he'd chalked it up to Justin's more volatile emotions, assuming the envy at Paul being given a promotion he hadn't even wanted would settle. Being a Lieutenant put him in the crosshairs of every other Ensign in the lab who would have just as soon assassinated their way upwards, no longer occasional allies as they all struggled to make breakthroughs fast enough to survive. Eventually, it was just the two of them left, everyone else having found a patron, a ship, or the wrong end of someone's knife. Things between them had grown cold, but Paul never saw it coming when they had a drink together to celebrate Justin's promotion and he woke up the next morning with a high fever, unable to speak and convulsing with chills. He'd commed him for help, sprawled over the floor of his quarters in his attempt to crawl to the medkit in the bathroom. When he'd arrived, Paul's relief quickly turned to shock as Justin kicked the PADD out of his hands, then stepped over his body and sat at Paul's console.

That morning, he'd watched the man he thought was a friend try to hack into his data, ignoring Paul as he vomited blood. Paul's firewall proved effective though, and he left empty handed an hour later, never saying a word. It took forty minutes for Paul to drag himself the fifteen feet into the bathroom, weak and convinced he was actually dying. The scanner identified the poison - and he should have known what his former friend was up to when he started studying Andorian deathcap - and he was able to hypo himself with enough standard antitoxin that he actually woke up alive after passing out in the shower.

It took a week to recover, cobbling together a cocktail of chemicals to counteract the toxin tearing his body apart. There was no point in calling Medical, not for something they would class as a laboratory "accident", nor telling Command who would expect him to take care of the problem himself. He should have spent the time devising a means of revenge, planning an opportunity to remove the threat. Instead, he spent most of it coming to terms with the fact that his friend Justin no longer existed. When he returned to the lab five kilos lighter and even paler than usual, Straal didn't bother to hide his disappointment, watching stony-faced as Paul sat back at his bench and acted as if the betrayal hadn't nearly gotten him killed.

It's been three years since Straal's attempt to poison him failed, three years of looking over his shoulder and adding extra layers of encryption to his data, and Paul doesn't honestly know how much he has left in him. Sometimes, when there’s a lull in hostilities he can almost forget everything that’s happened since. Culber's attention has given him something else to focus on, but it's only slightly less worrying.

 _> >Are you sure I can't help with your problem? _appears on his PADD while he's taking samples out of the centrifuge. 

The sender is anonymous, but he knows who it is.

>> I told you, it's fine.

_> > You should let me handle it._

>> Why?

_> > Have you figured it out yet?_

He really, really hasn't.

>> Thank you for the help, but I can take care of myself.

_> > All right._

The conversation ends there, and it's not until an hour later that his PADD chirps again.

_> > Do you like wine?_

"What the fuck," he mutters, quietly enough that the sound of the centrifuge covers it.

>> No.

_> > Okay._

There's nothing else after that, which is fine because he has absolutely no idea why Culber even cares and he really needs to transplant these seedlings and put them in the low pressure chamber before midnight. It's slow going, and thankfully Straal leaves at 1930 so he at least can concentrate a little more. He doesn't leave the lab until 0100, exhausted and intent on indulging in a long hot shower, but still pauses outside his door to check his security measures haven't been tampered with before keying the door open.

"Oh good, I was wondering when you were getting home."

Paul stops in his tracks.

"Should I have commed first?"

He glances at the control panel to confirm that yes, all of his defenses are still up. The neural disruption field on the threshold should have fried anyone else trying to enter without deactivating it first, and yet Hugh Culber is lounging on his couch with his collar unzipped, boots propped on the coffee table along with an expensive bottle of whiskey. Paul takes a step forward to let the doors close behind him but doesn't get any closer (because shocked or not, there's no excuse for leaving his back to an open door or straying from an escape route). 

"How...?"

"Oh, that? Sorry, it was making visiting you difficult. Impressive bit of tech actually, it took a while to program it to accept my readings."

"You-"

"It'll still work just fine on everyone else."

Paul blinks, wondering if he's actually asleep back in the lab and this is his brain's twisted sense of humor. Probably not, since he can still feel the blister on his left big toe from breaking in this new pair of boots.

"...okay."

Culber stares at him for a few seconds, then stands and crosses the room. His stride is confident, powerful and he reaches up towards Paul’s neck. 

_Fuck._

A warm hand curves around Paul's throat (gently, so gently) and guides him closer. There's no force in the grip, and Culber lets his hand fall as soon as they're toe to toe. This close, without the stink of sweat and blood in an alley, the scent of woodsy musk is even stronger, overlaid with a hint of medical antiseptic. Paul can't look away from his eyes, the kohl smudged a little at the edges, lashes dark and thick. 

"Don't worry," he coos, "I'm not going to hurt you."

He tries to clench his hands to hide their shaking, realizing that he still has his carryall clutched in his left hand and his right hovering over his phaser. 

“What are you doing here?”

”I wanted to talk,” Culber tilts his head towards the crook of Paul's neck and shoulder, inhaling, “I’m very interested in you.”

Paul swallows, knows he can see the movement. 

"Clearly."

There’s no missing the implication. As unlikely as it is, could it really be that simple?

Culber straightens, pursing his lips thoughtfully. 

”You didn’t try to take advantage of my offer. No one usually has the balls to do that.”

_Fuck._

”I-“

"I like that."

_...what?_

"You-"

"You're not groveling at my feet. You didn't ask for anything else, didn't even want me to get rid of any of your rivals for you."

Dark amber eyes study him with an odd fascination, like Paul is some sort of exotic fungi to be catalogued and described. 

**_Chirp._ **

Paul nearly jumps out of his skin when Culber's comm goes off. Annoyance clear on his face, he flips it open.

"Culber."

_"Where the hell are you?"_

A woman's voice, authoritative and slightly frustrated.

"Busy. Call you back, Trace."

Culber snaps it shut and clips it back onto his belt.

"Well," he sighs, "looks like I can't stay, unfortunately."

"What- why?"

"I thought you'd be home earlier," he sounds genuinely disappointed, fastening his collar with a frown and tugging his armor straight, "only docked till 0200 and I need to get back."

"You...here."

Paul seems to be reduced to monosyllables, which usually isn't ever the case. His brain is refusing to wrap itself around any of this.

"What kind of food do you like?"

_What?_

His comm chirps again, insistently.

"You don't have to decide now," Culber pats Paul on the cheek, "we can talk later." 

He smiles then turns towards the door, face settling into the same neutral expression as when he left Paul in the alley.

"Watch your back, Stamets."

Culber steps around him and is gone a moment later, leaving Paul staring at the unopened bottle of whiskey still on the table.

"Fuck."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Terran flirting is a bit heavy-handed, but Paul Stamets in any universe is going to be a little oblivious.
> 
> Favorite comment when I first posted this from absolutedisasterbi:  
>  _Hugh: *pats self on back* another successful flirtation_  
>  _Paul: I'M GONNA DIE_


	2. Survival, Part Five

Paul's oddly disappointed to find his quarters empty when he gets home for the next week. He leaves the bottle on the coffee table, not completely convinced it isn’t some sort of monitoring device, staring at it as he works on his PADD. 

Straal's gone further off the deep end lately, nearly beating a tech to death when his experiment failed - Paul could have told him that the growth parameters were wrong if he had asked - and he wonders if he really ought to accept Culber's help if only to get himself reassigned somewhere else far away. There's nothing left worth risking his own life or his data for.

_Justin is dead. You just have Straal._

Self-preservation is the first lesson any Terran learns, and Paul’s no different, even if he'd much rather wait and calculate the risks versus benefits of a situation if he's not in immediate danger. He's not a very good liar, which should have been a death sentence, but he's managed to manipulate his way this far without a patron or other protection. Not seeking revenge only looks like weakness though, even if Paul considers it wasteful (training new techs takes _forever_ ). It wouldn’t be his first kill, even of someone who used to be a friend. 

_Sooner or later, you're going to have to do something about him,_ a dispassionate part of his brain informs him as he's lying awake at 0330 and staring at the riveting in the ceiling panels, _either find a way to leave or make sure he’s incapable of trying to kill you again. He might succeed next time._

He’s never asked for that kind of help anyway, unwilling to involve himself with a third party. It’s not only expensive, but the old Terran saying about “hire an assassin once, look over your shoulder for life” is true and far too risky. Paul's not interested in that sort of debt or leverage over him.

_If Culber wanted you dead, he could have just as easily let himself in while you were sleeping, taken anything he wanted, and you’d never wake up._

It doesn’t make sense, but the doctor seems to actually be fond of Paul, inasmuch as sending him gifts and offering his services. He can’t reconcile it with the lethal, elegant brutality of the man, when he's done nothing that someone of his privilege should even notice. Or he might be even more sadistic than his reputation holds, setting up an elaborate game just to manipulate Paul. That doesn't seem as likely, strangely enough, although he'd have to admire the long game if it is.

_There’s nothing you can do for him that he might be trying to buy, so it has to be personal. He's interested in you for whatever reason, you **should** take advantage of that while it lasts._

Except, getting involved in any way with an Imperial physician is really best left to those with the ambition for power. Even the Emperor was rumored to give her doctors remarkable leeway, for the simple fact that they could as much save her life as end it and those skills were far too valuable to throw away. Together with the medical skillset doubling for interrogation, Paul has no desire to get anywhere near the court, happy to be ignored and thought a coward if only it meant people would leave him alone to do his work.

Culber, of course, can’t read Paul’s mind (presumably), so there’s a string of messages for him when he finally manages to get a few hours of sleep.

_> > Sorry I couldn’t stay before._

_> > Impressive tech though, especially around the bed. _

_> > I_ _liked the neural disruption emitters._

_> > Did you open it yet?_

_> > I know you're home, so it should be there._

_> > Is that the one you've been looking for? _

He's not surprised that Culber is aware of where he is, and the thought is more comforting than it has a right to be as he dresses.

_What the fuck, Stamets._

There's no courier this time, just an unobtrusive package waiting outside his door. He scans it carefully - no telling what someone else might have attached as a surprise - before bringing it inside. It's cylindrical, about the length of his forearm, but there's something in the material of it that scrambles his sensor readings. When he finally pops the lid, Paul feels all of the blood rushing to his face.

_No._

He blinks, rubs a hand over his eyes, but neither they nor his tricorder change what they're telling him. 

"Fuck."

Suspended in a stasis canister, a single perfect specimen of _Prototaxites stellaviatori_ glows blue-purple. It's not the tiny fragments of dried mycelia and spores he's been able to scrape together, but a beautiful fruiting body with its spores intact and still alive. He doesn't even know who he would have to kill to get his hands on a small portion, and here Culber has just delivered him an entire living fungus that - Paul swallows, has to concentrate on breathing until the feeling of lightheadedness passes - if he's careful, he could cultivate and grow himself as much as he needs. His research has been focused on stringing together bits of bioactive data, mapping the genome, but this...

Fingers numb, he fumbles for his comm and tries his luck with the unencrypted frequency Culber used before. It doesn't connect, but a minute later it buzzes to life with a secure channel.

_“You got it?”_

"How did you even- an entire _P. stellaviatori._ Full stasis, no contamination. There isn't even one on the market right now."

As if he could afford it if there was. 

_"Oh, I found one of your suppliers. You should be more circumspect, he wasn't hard to trace. He didn’t want to cooperate even after I explained why I needed to know what he’d sold you, so I threatened to bleed him out slowly,"_ Culber's tone has an 'of course' included, _"and he was happy to let me look at his records. Ended up killing him anyway. You won’t need him, I've already found better sources.”_

"You killed him and found a new source."

_"Another chemist who can provide your reagents who'll keep her mouth shut."_

He probably shouldn't ask, but...

"Umm. Not to be ungrateful, but how do you know that?"

Culber sounds pleased at the question, laughing, which is a relief. 

_"She owes me."_

Ahh. Well then. He can't imagine anyone owing Hugh Culber who would be willing to risk his lethal wrath.

_Well, you owe him now too._

There's muffled voices, and Culber must be holding his hand over the receiver because all he hears is something about stimulating pain receptors. 

”I...”

_“I can get you another one if that doesn’t work or if there's something wrong with it. She said it's intact.”_

'I can get you another one' is not something Paul hears very often, not when it isn't followed by 'but I'll need some extra payment'. Doesn't hear ever, actually.

"There's so much I can...it's perfect, intact. What do you-“ his tongue feels heavy in a way that has nothing to do with his body, "I need to pay you."

_"Hmm? Oh, no. That wasn't a lot of trouble."_

Terrans and altruism aren't compatible. What the hell?

"Culber-"

A rattling of metal instruments.

 _“By the way, S_ _traal is looking to put a contract out on you,”_ Culber’s cheerful voice hardens as ice flows down Paul’s spine, _"can't have a loose end.”_

”Wha- when?”

_”Contacted Command and offered his supposedly superior work along with a sloppy hack of your files. Said he expected a promotion soon.”_

So much for trying to get a transfer. 

_”Why haven't you gotten rid of him before now? Or are you planning to? I don't want to spoil your fun. I can do it, if you want to watch."_

Culber sounds mildly chiding, and terrifyingly sincere about the last part. 

"It would be better to wait until the experiment he's running is finished. And I'll need his notes before that."

There's no point in trying to obfuscate Culber, is there? The fact that Culber is monitoring reports to an obscure branch of the meager science division isn't even the oddest part. It feels alien to speak so plainly (thanking him on multiple occasions?), to not project arrogant disinterest. Anything he's said would be damning in terms of showing weakness. Paul chews his lip, glad that Culber isn’t on a visual comms link to see it. 

_"Do it when you get back then."_

"Back?"

_"I want to see you. Meet me on Luna."_

"I have to ask for leave-"

_"Oh, hang on."_

A few taps of what must be a stylus, then Paul's PADD lights up. 

**> > Transit for: Stamets, Paul, Lieutenant Commander, Science**

**> > Supersedes all prior orders**

**> > Authorized by: Culber, Hugh, Imperial Medical Corps**

**> > Origin: Alpha Centauri**

**> > Destination: Luna, Terra, Sol III**

_"That go through?"_

Paul Stamets, normally three steps ahead of any situation with a photon grenade on the path behind him and insurance with a dagger in his sleeve, has never felt this off balance. His head is still spinning at the casual display of power, but he nods before realizing Culber (probably) can't see it. It's really not a feeling he likes.

"I- yes."

_"Transport shuttle at the port, 2200."_

"Today."

_"I have an offer for you I'd like to discuss in private. Watch your back."_

One of these days, Paul would like to be the one to end the conversation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My headcanon: non-munitions research is third or fourth tier consideration for the Empire. Scientists are given minimal assistance from Command, and are expected to obtain anything else they need themselves.
> 
> Writing a Hugh Culber who still has all the essential elements of our Hugh but twisting them is a challenge. Wilson said on a podcast that he sees Mirror!Hugh as someone who seeks immediate gratification for what he wants (sex, pharmaceuticals, etc.) and just indulges all of his impulses. I've tried to write him as someone who is scary AF but because he likes Paul...he's trying to be "helpful".


	3. Survival, Part Six

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Paul’s hoping it won’t be a one-way trip.

Conveniently, he’s at a stage in his latest experiments on plasmid transformation in several lines of fungi that requires a ten-day incubation undisturbed before checking exogenous genetic uptake. He’d almost suspect Culber timed it that way, but chances are that it’s coincidental given that he didn’t make any reference to it. Paul doesn't bother contacting Straal or the techs to let them know he's going anywhere. He does, however, add an extra layer of security to the vault in his quarters and double checks the circuits on his neural disruption field. While he's in the program, he has to give Culber credit - his bioneural signature has been linked with Paul's, so there's no purging it without having to go through the painstaking process of synergizing it again.

Not for the first time, Paul wonders what he’s walking into. Culber hadn’t threatened him into doing anything, but the ability to issue orders overriding Command isn’t common. An ‘offer’ could be anything from determining his suitability to be poached for another project or the kind of offer accompanied by a phaser to the head which really isn’t one at all. So far, he’s only given Paul useful things, and despite his claims of them being gifts, he wonders if this is Culber’s opportunity to dictate whatever terms he expects in return. A very small part of him wonders if he’s about to be offered patronage. 

It’s too much to hope for, so he packs that thought away along with a change of clothes, three PADDs, a half dozen data solids, and his spare phaser. Culber’s paralyzer is clipped to his belt alongside his dagger, and he mentally reviews the schematics of the spaceport and contingencies. He confirms yet again that the _stella_ is secure with a backup stasis generator at the heart of his vault, then seals it. It’s safer for _stella_ to stay here where presumably only Paul, Culber, and Culber’s unnamed supplier know he even has one versus coming with him, but it’s difficult to walk away.

A final check that the authorization is updated on his file (he can’t imagine Command having the balls to challenge Medical), and he heads for the spaceport at 2130.

* * *

The shuttle in the far end of the port is emblazoned with the Imperial Medical Corps emblem, a pair of venomous snakes wrapped around a winged physician's staff, and everyone else is giving it a wide berth. He approaches warily, all too cognizant of the guards standing to either side of its boarding door with phaser rifles at the ready. As he nears, they bring them to bear on him, and he summons up every bit of the icy demeanor he uses for meetings with Command.

"Lieutenant Commander Paul Stamets," he looks down his nose as best he can at two people a few inches taller than he is, "I assume you're expecting me."

The guard on the left narrows her eyes, glancing sidewise at her counterpart who looks Paul up and down. Neither of them speak, but they also don't seem inclined to get out of his way, fingers moving to rest over the trigger pads.

Well. 

This isn't how he expected his evening to go. 

Instead of tucking himself in bed with a glass of whiskey and scanning the latest intel or analyzing data, he's staring down two elite soldiers who probably wouldn't even bother to wave his ash out of the way after disintegrating him. He wonders if he needs to invoke Culber's name or show the transit authorization. That would require either setting down his case with his triple encrypted data (bad) or taking his right hand off his holstered phaser (worse), and he really doesn’t want to do either of those.

The guards come to attention when the airlock opens, but he's sure they're still watching him. A woman in a red medical uniform steps out, nodding to the guards who finally lower their weapons.

"So you're Culber's find," she says at last.

It's not dismissive, derogatory, or curious, just a statement of fact.

"Yes."

She's about his height, but the heels on her boots seem to make her tower over him.

_Must be that doctor's privilege._

"Tracy Pollard, Imperial Medical Corps. Get in."

Without giving him a chance to respond, she pivots and climbs back onto the shuttle. Paul stares at her retreating back for only a moment before following. He pauses at the door, holding up his case to be scanned. The woman on the left is still regarding him like a particularly suspicious animal, but snaps to attention again at Pollard's voice.

"Hugh wants him. Let him in so we can get the hell off this planet."

_Hugh._

It occurs to Paul that he's heard her voice before - the 'Tracy' that Culber took a comm from the night he broke into Paul's quarters - and the knowledge that she's on a first-name basis with Culber is another layer of unsettling. He'd honestly expected a standard Imperial transport, routing him through Mars or one of the orbital stations for clearance. This shuttle though, would have unquestioned authorization to land on Terra itself, anywhere up to the perimeter of the Emperor's palace. Culber’s visit rattled him, but Paul should have investigated 'Tracy' further. Would have, if the whole encounter hadn't left him completely distracted. It’s safe to assume she’s just as dangerous as Culber, at any rate.

He boards, the guards following and the airlock sealing itself with a quiet hiss. They’re standing in a small corridor, viewport on the opposite end and doors to either side. To his right, the pilot and co-pilot ignore him completely, forcefield protecting the cockpit humming to life and the guards taking up positions when the thrusters warm up.

 _Who_ _do they think is going to try anything here?_

The corridor is otherwise empty, and he finds Pollard watching him from the second doorway to the left. 

"Get in here," she indicates the area beyond the door with her chin, "need to make a call and I'll join you."

He glances into the first door on the left and wishes he hadn’t. There’s a full interrogation setup, a metal frame with thick leather straps and agonizer leads and electrodes alongside a cart full of medical tools. It doesn’t escape him that it could also double as a sadist’s playroom with restraints and a torture table, gleaming metal probes visible.

Stepping past Pollard is intimidating, although he does his best to keep his expression bland until the door closes behind him. He surveys the room: an officer's private quarters, seemingly, but much more luxuriously appointed than any transport he's been on. Another forcefield springs to life over the door, effectively caging him in unless he wants to rend apart the hull plating for a hasty trip into the vacuum of space. It occurs to him that it also could protect him from other occupants of the shuttle, but it’s not a reassuring thought. 

Paul swallows as he walks around the room, careful not to touch anything and aware he’s probably being monitored. The space is dominated by a full workstation and beyond it, a large bed all done up in midnight blue linens. There’s a pair of cuffs built into the head- and footboards, but otherwise it’s unremarkable. 

_Is this a personal transport, or do they just assume Imperial physicians need to interrogate and fuck on any journey?_

The screen on one wall shows the shuttle's course - Terra to Alpha Centauri, and thirty hours back to Luna. Culber only commed fifteen hours ago, meaning he either had the shuttle diverted or it was already enroute.

_How long ago did he plan this?_

There’s no time to think about anything else, because the door opens again. He turns, and before he can even open his mouth, Pollard is backing him against the wall with a dagger to his balls. Its sharp point penetrates his uniform, and he controls a flinch to avoid castrating himself. Her eyes bore into him, hard and unreadable.

"So. Hugh’s interested in you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You didn't think I'd write a Paul and Hugh story without Tracy, did you? Mirror!Tracy is just as snarky and sharp, same don't-fuck-with-me attitude but she'll **actually** kill you if you piss her off.


	4. Survival, Part Seven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Interrogation doesn’t always require an elaborate setup.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for threats of violence and a little bit of blood.

Paul struggles to keep his breathing even as Pollard pushes it up just a millimeter or two more. Her other hand shoots out to grip his wrist, fingertips digging in until he’s forced to release the phaser. Both of Pollard’s hands are remarkably steady, and after it’s clear he’s not going to move, she smiles humorlessly.

”Hands on the wall.”

He lets the travel case fall to the floor and raises his hands slowly to shoulder height, pressing the backs against the cold bulkhead. 

“Nice to meet you,” he tries to tone down the sarcasm, considering that the person he’s addressing literally has him by the balls.

Pollard’s eyes narrow in thought, and she tilts her head to the side, searching his face for something. She hums thoughtfully, turning the blade until he can feel the flat of it rubbing over his inner thigh. It’s completely non-sexual, and all the more terrifying for it.

If he makes it past this intact, at least he has a fresh uniform with him. Walking around with the groin slashed open is just too much of a liability.

Her free hand moves, pressing two fingers to the side of his neck under his jaw.

_What the..._

He supposes his pulse tells her a lot about his current state of mind.

”Hugh,” and there’s that name again, “asked me to be sure you made it to Luna safely.”

”I appreciate that.”

”Do you?”

The knife slides a little higher.

”Yes.”

It’s not a lie.

“I could open up your femoral artery and you’d be dead before you have a chance to run. Not that there’s anywhere to go.”

Her tone is conversational, and he doesn’t doubt for a moment that she’s serious.

”Or,” she continues, “strap you into the chair next door and find out everything with a little electricity here.”

The flat of the blade taps his balls again.

“What do you want from me?”

His voice only wavers a little when the thumb of the hand on his neck stretches out to threaten his windpipe.

“What is it about you that makes you different? I’ve read all the files, but that’s just your work.”

”You saw my work?”

About to have his balls skewered or not, apparently that part of his brain doesn’t know when to shut up. Pollard blinks, and he swears a hint of a smile flitted across her lips.

”You’ve been on that shithole Alpha Centauri for years. Your research partner is incompetent, and Command doesn’t have enough brains to know the difference between the two.”

That could be a dangerous statement if it got back to Command, but he’s not in a position to make any kind of threat.

”Yes.”

”Why,” Pollard flicks the knife, shaving off some of the hairs on his inner thigh, “are you still there? What game are you playing?”

He can’t answer that. Paul knows he can’t lie effectively. If he’s honest, there’s a very good chance she’ll kill him out of disdain for his weakness. Instead, he just shakes his head mutely.

The hand on his throat retreats, plucking the paralyzer off his belt instead.

”Hugh’s been giving you things.”

”...yes. He’s been...generous.”

”And right now you’re either wondering why, or you’re planning to take advantage of it. I wonder which one it is?”

She sets the paralyzer on a side table without even looking. Then in one smooth motion, she unsheathes his dagger and holds it to his throat. Paul swallows convulsively, feeling the razor edge of it kiss his skin.

“And if I think you’re lying,” she slices shallowly and he can feel warm blood trickling from the cut, “I’ll slit your throat and make you watch yourself bleed out. Or I’ll leave you for Hugh to take apart. Intimately. He wanted you intact, but I don’t think he’ll be angry with _me_ for too long if that’s the case.”

_Does she mean with a knife, or does she think he’s going to fuck me to death?_

_Do you want to know the answer to that?_

Both daggers press just a little deeper.

“Well? What are you after?”

_Lying to an Imperial physician is way beyond anything you’re capable of doing._

_She’s obviously one of Culber’s allies. Tell her the truth._

”I. Just. Want to-“ he gasps a shallow breath, trying to move as little as possible, “my research. That’s all.”

”And Hugh?”

More blood soaking into the collar of his uniform.

”You would. Probably know. Better.”

“You didn’t ask him for those chemicals? The paralyzer? That...mushroom?”

He goes to shake his head and thinks better of it.

“No. Offered to pay. He didn’t. Want it.”

”You didn’t ask him to come see you.”

The blade at his groin flicks the other way, slicing off crisp hair half an inch away from his dick. He doesn’t want to know if she was able to tell which side he’s dressed to before cutting.

”No.”

“And you’re either smart enough or too stupid to fight back now. Interesting.”

Normally he’d wonder if that was a compliment, but he’s too busy trying to sink back into the solid duranium bulkhead to lessen the danger to his throat.

“Which one is it?”

”...generally, the first.”

There’s a horrible few seconds where her face goes completely blank, and Paul starts calculating how fast he’d have to be to escape a fatal wound. None of the scenarios look good.

The knives start to move and he’s about to throw himself to the side when she slams them both back into their respective sheaths and laughs, face transforming as she pats his cheek _(do all doctors do that, or just Pollard and Culber?)_ and steps away.

“I guess Hugh’s going to get you alive after all.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tracy’s a bit protective of Hugh in every universe.


	5. Survival, Part Eight

Pollard hands him back the paralyzer, and he takes it with fingers that he hopes aren't shaking too noticeably.

"Sit," she orders, pointing at the table and chairs next to the workstation.

Paul tries not to be someone who seems too biddable, but at this point it's probably best to do whatever she says. Instead of standard issue utilitarian grey metal chairs, these are some sort of dark wood with plush cushions. The table is made of the same material, polished to a glossy finish, and his reflection stares back up at him from its surface. He has to give himself credit for looking reasonably calm, albeit with perspiration on his brow and a clenched jaw.

Pollard returns from the synthesizer with a pitcher, two glasses, and a bowl of fruit. 

"Here."

He accepts the glass, looking down into dark liquid that he thinks might be juice or tea. Scanning it would be too obvious, but he can't quite bring himself to drink yet.

"It's not poisoned," Pollard sounds amused as she props her elbow on the table and takes a sip of her own, "if I wanted you dead, I wouldn't waste my time."

Paul doesn't doubt that in the slightest. The contents of the glass turn out to be some sort of spiced tea with a cloying sweetness that he can't decide whether he likes or finds too syrupy. He sets it down after drinking half, watching as Pollard selects an apple from the bowl and pulls a much smaller knife out of her sleeve to begin paring it.

_I'm supposed to spend another twenty-nine and a half hours playing mental intimidation chess?_

The stress levels remind him of defending his dissertation - nearly at knifepoint when one of the committee members decided Paul's leading theory insulted his work - and dealing with Command in all of their scientific illiteracy. Pollard though, is probably sharper than all of those individuals combined. 

On one hand, it could be an opportunity to learn more about Culber and maybe what his intentions are. On the other, any question he asks will tell her about him just as much as her answer. He's not sure what Culber's told her though, and really doesn't want to end up pinned to the wall by his balls again. Either way he works the calculation seems to come out with equal amounts of risk, but more information is power.

"Doctor."

She slices a chunk out of the apple and eats it off the point of the knife.

"Stamets."

Her tone is even, but he can tell she's enjoying making him tense. Imperial physicians and sadism go hand in hand though, and he should be able to handle whatever she throws at him. Verbally, anyway.

"Culber sent you."

Pollard offers him a slice which he declines, slowly reaching for a skewer of berries instead. They're tart and juicy, and much higher quality than the usual synth fare.

"That surprises you?"

A lie is on the tip of his tongue, concealment of potential weakness too ingrained. She sets the core down and gives him her full attention, which is only slightly less intimidating than having her threatening his manhood. He settles for something neutral that neither exposes his surprise nor offers a potential insult.

"I wasn't expecting an escort."

Pollard cocks her head to the side, lips twitching up at the corners.

"You really have no idea, do you?"

_Are all Imperial physicians this...enigmatic?_

He chooses not to answer that.

"Culber told me to meet him on Luna."

Her raised eyebrow says _'obviously'._

"What's in the case?"

Pollard surely knows, but he answers anyway.

"Some of my work. Data on what I've been able to piece together about stella, and-" he glances down at his lap, "a new uniform."

That earns him a smirk.

"Need a regen for your balls?"

"I'm fine."

"Mmm."

He can't shake the notion that she finds him terribly amusing, and he has no idea why.

"So," she taps the side of the table and a holo-display flickers on with his file, "Paul Stamets. Scientific specialty in astromycology- space fungus gets an actual category? - dual doctorates. Survived the string of deathcap poisonings from your cohort along with Justin Straal. Posted to Alpha Centauri as part of a research team exploring fungal genetics and interaction with cosmological phenomena, promoted twice but still on that shithole planet. No patron or ship assignment, but you managed to somehow keep getting funding from Command. Still haven't earned Master of Poisons, hmmmm."

"What is this, an interview?"

Pollard retrieves a banana, peeling it carefully.

"What do you think is happening?"

Paul sets down the empty skewer. The elegant rod is stiletto-sharp, and he wonders if he might be able to tuck it up his sleeve once he's done eating. Every avenue he considers maneuvering towards still has the fatal flaw of requiring him to lie about something. Might as well tell her the truth.

"I was planning to see if you'd tell me."

The simple statement appears to please her, because she laughs again.

"You're not very good at this."

She's watching him with something too hard to be called sympathy, but not derogatory or mocking enough to be pity.

"I'm a scientist. I do my research, Command gets their reports, and occasionally I develop a new toxin towards mastership."

Humming thoughtfully, Pollard swings her legs up to rest her boots on another chair, ankles crossed. 

"No ambition? You haven't actually killed anyone to get promoted. That idiot Straal doesn't seem to have any issues getting people out of the way."

 _'So why haven't you?'_ is implied. Paul smiles thinly.

"He hasn't been able to get rid of me yet."

Pollard points at him with the banana, and he can't help noticing the phallic resemblance.

"Hugh says you're not susceptible to seduction or intoxication."

"...what?"

She rolls her eyes.

"The assassin? You don't think he was in that garbage bar for a drink, do you?"

A couple of pieces click together in his brain. Had he misread Culber's interest in him?

"He sent him?"

"Please," Pollard lops off the tip of the banana too slowly to be anything but deliberate, "if he wanted you dead, he wouldn't have bothered. No. I'm beginning to wonder if you're not as smart as he thinks."

Despite the situation, Paul bristles at the insult.

"What do you care?"

Pollard takes another slice off the banana. He has half a second to see her eyes flick to his hands on the table before she kicks the chair under her boots away and lunges for him, a blur of silver coming towards his eyes. Without thinking, Paul tucks his knee to his chest and tries to plant his heel in her stomach even as one arm flies up to block the slash. His hands are in the wrong position to unsheath his dagger or the paralyzer, but he thrusts the skewer at her exposed underarm. She's too fast for him though, knocking him out of his chair so that the back of his head thuds painfully on the deck as pain explodes from his groin. His vision warps for a moment, and when it returns he finds the point of the knife hovering an inch above his eye, a hand around his throat, and her knee on his balls.

His head throbs, threatening nausea before adrenaline forces it back down. Pollard is crouched over him, a line of red along her cheek where his deflected stab with the skewer must have grazed her. He stares up at her, defiant.

_I should be dead already._

"What are you waiting for?" he grinds out, vision darkening.

A drop of blood from the cut on her cheek lands on his chin, Pollard's face impassive. The next thing he knows, he can breathe again and she's sitting back on her heels with a completely incongruous smile.

"Looks like you're not totally helpless," she laughs, and he thinks he can detect a hint of - fond? - amusement in her voice before she hauls herself to her feet.

Paul tries to push himself up, but his vision swims and he hits the deck hard again. A moment later, he hears the hum of a tricorder and a hypospray hisses at the side of his neck. Cool relief spreads almost immediately, nausea receding as Pollard rights his chair. He's silent as she offers him a hand, hauling him to his feet and dumping him back into the chair before aiming a regen at her cheek.

"You don't have a concussion, so you should be able to talk."

He spreads his knees wider to give his injured groin more space and blinks at the mess on the table and floor, pitcher shattered on the deck and sliced melon crushed beneath her feet.

"...what the fuck."

Pollard sets the skewer back on the table next to his hand and holds out an ice pack.

"Sorry about your balls," she smirks, "not bad reflexes though."

Since she seems to be done with her attempt to kill him, he accepts it and presses it to his aching crotch. He knows she could hypo the pain and swelling out, but it doesn't seem like a good idea to ask.

"Was that some kind of test?" 

There's a few beeps, and a cleaning drone swoops out to begin clearing the debris. Setting her own chair back on its feet, Pollard closes up the medkit and sits. Her lips twitch as he glowers at her.

"You really are exactly who you appear to be."

He can't tell if she sounds more impressed or incredulous.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"You're not an assassin."

"Clearly," he winces, adjusting the ice pack, "not."

"Had to check. Hugh could have dealt with it, but I figured I'd save him the trouble if he was wrong."

Paul opens and closes his mouth a couple of times before he's able to speak.

"You really think I'm stupid enough to attack _Culber?"_

Pollard retrieves her miraculously intact partial banana and takes a bite.

"Oh, you are going to be so much fun."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Humans give shovel talks, Terrans do attempted murder. 
> 
> I was intending to have Tracy leave Paul to his own devices, but this scene was far too entertaining to not write.


	6. Survival, Part Nine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tracy can't figure out why Hugh is so fascinated with Paul.

Pollard leaves him alone to change, citing a need to make another call - _is that code for something?_ \- while the drone finishes removing strawberry juice from the bulkhead.

He steps into the attached bathroom and lays his case on the counter, unsurprised to find a decidedly non-regulation tub alongside the shower, toilet, and sink. Unbuckling his armor and weapon belt, he sets them aside and peels his dirtied uniform off. It takes longer than normal to complete the process, gingerly easing it down his legs and trying to move in a way that strains the muscles around his groin the least. He should dress again as soon as possible, but after the last half hour he’s certain that if he’s about to be attacked, clothing isn’t going to protect him. 

Paul picks up the ice pack again, pressing it to his crotch. Through the thin fabric of his briefs, the coolness soothes a little more of the ache. If he’d had any dignity left after surviving the Academy as a scientist, it would be bruised, but really he’s just glad to still have both of his balls attached. With that thought, he groans and drops his underwear, wetting a towel and turning to the full length mirror to examine his reflection. 

He grimaces at the general paleness and hair on display, although that’s nothing new. The shallow cuts on his neck have started to scab over, and he wipes away the blood before looking any lower. They’re not worth bothering with a regen for, and he does have to respect Pollard’s complete physical control for that. A quick swipe under his arms takes care of the worst of the fear-sweat, and he rinses the towel before setting it aside. 

He’s almost afraid to look, even though he knows everything is still attached. There are two patches of hair missing, courtesy of Pollard’s dagger, and reddened scratches that barely broke the skin at the crease where hip meets thigh and along his shaft. Gritting his teeth, he carefully nudges his dick out of the way and cups his balls, lifting them to inspect. Both seem to be intact and untwisted (that happened once, and he can’t imagine interrogation torture to be worse), but still sore and reddened. 

Letting out a breath he hadn’t been consciously holding, Paul opens his case to retrieve a change of clothing. There’s a refresher unit on the wall, but it won’t do anything about the two-inch slice in both garments. He’ll just have to recycle and hopefully synthesize another set so he has a spare, assuming Pollard isn’t going to try to kill him again. It takes a few moments to find a comfortable position for his still-sensitive parts. Zipping up, he replaces his armor and re-seals the case before opening the door, old uniform bundled under his arm.

Pollard is waiting for him with a meal, but doesn’t say anything as he programs the wall unit to reclaim and duplicate. He leaves the case on the bed and takes the chair she waves him towards.

”Let’s talk.”

He keeps an eye on her hands as she salts her salad and spears a chunk of cucumber off her plate, weighing what to say. The plate in front of him has pasta with fish and a side of grilled mushrooms, which he very much doubts is a coincidence. 

”Relax, Stamets. Hugh wants you in one piece.”

She shoves the skewer across the table at him.

_Bruised is technically one piece I suppose. Trust an interrogator to split hairs. And what **is** her relationship with Culber?_

”Not bad aim,” Pollard adds, “but you should go for the neck and not the arm next time.”

Paul picks up the skewer, admiring the twisted end, and stares at her while he slips it into the sheath under his cuff. He wonders if he hit his head harder than he thought, because while her expression doesn’t change, he gets a strange sense of approval. It honestly makes her a little more intimidating. 

“Hugh still wants to know what you like to eat.”

He pauses mid-bite.

”Why?”

Thankfully, he manages to wrestle down the urge to add _'is he interested at all?'_.

Pollard sets down her butter knife.

”Because he wants to send you a gift basket. Why do you think?”

Paul raises a sarcastic eyebrow and eats another forkful of pasta before answering with another question. 

”Why doesn’t he just pull my synthesizer history?”

It’s all quite good, although he can’t place the flavor. The mushrooms aren’t bad either. 

”Oh he did,” Pollard doesn’t seem bothered, “said it seemed pretty boring.”

_Well then._

”I’m not particularly interesting.”

She pours herself a glass of wine, saying nothing as he ignores the decanter and chooses water instead.

”Everything in your file agrees with that, and yet Hugh's concerned himself with keeping you alive. What is it that's so important about you?”

He falls back on the explanation he usually gives, the one that makes people roll their eyes and walk away because it doesn't involve bioweapons, mammalian genetic manipulation, or ship building. It establishes him as just a scientist, one who isn't working on anything dangerous enough to be a threat to anyone and therefore can be completely ignored. Coupled with his ability to fade into the background, it's served him in good stead.

“I study fungal networks, including those present near the formation of the universe that are still extant. Their proliferation and mycelial communication. There’s enough possible tertiary applications of my work that might be linked to weaponization. That’s all.”

Pollard points at him within her fork and honestly, Paul preferred the banana as a less potentially lethal implement.

“See, if I were to believe that, there’s no reason for Hugh to send me to the ass end of the sector to pick up a random researcher. The Science division were about as useful as bulkhead during a solar flare, so I decided to read your reports too. Funny thing, no one mentions that it could have applications for altering warp dynamics and energy sources.”

That stops Paul in his tracks and he once again curses his pale skin for giving away his reactions. Nobody - which is why it's so damned difficult to get his hands on supplies and facility access and funding - seems to quite understand the virtually limitless power source gained by tapping into the mycelial network to see the other possibilities. He would expect a physician to understand the parts on chemical and genetic constructs, but there's no reason for one to be versed in the physics or theoretical engineering implications. Paul works hard to keep his voice steady

"Command dismissed the possibility."

Pollard narrows her eyes. The lights turn her gold eyeshadow a dark bronze that makes her stare even more unsettling.

"Imperial priorities aren't always correct."

Those words could be considered treason if heard by the wrong ears. It's far-fetched to think this would be some sort of test of his loyalty, particularly by someone of Pollard or Culber's rank and status. If it is, he can't imagine why Command would have sent them. If it's not, it suggests political intrigue that he'd rather not consider in terms of his continued survival. Paul busies himself deconstructing a roll. It’s a terrible deflection, and he knows she knows it. 

"The Emperor tell you that?"

"This place isn’t going to hold up on conquest forever. Certain...people dream bigger than just weapons and destruction."

"How do I know you won't just kill me and take it?"

He flinches when Pollard actually throws her head back and laughs. It's an uninhibited sound, no menace or mockery, and Paul feels his face grow warm.

_What the hell?_

"I'm a doctor, Stamets. I fix people, I take them apart, I make them give me answers. But as far as I can tell, your work is most definitely useless without you. Sending me to make sure a scientist with that kind of knowledge makes it to us safely,” Pollard leans forward, “that’s protecting a potential investment. Having a vested interest in making sure an assassin didn’t kill you, also important. None of that explains why Hugh expects me to find out what you like to eat, does it?”

”No.”

"He called in a debt to get you your space mushroom.”

”I didn't ask for it.”

”So you said. But he doesn’t usually skip out on an interrogation to send obscure gifts to his fucktoys.”

He doesn’t quite choke on the mushroom he’s swallowing, but he’s sure Pollard noticed. Apparently he hadn’t misread Culber’s interest on that level. There’s no hiding the flush he can feel in his cheeks, but he tries for noncommittal, draining his water glass and meeting her stare blandly. 

"If Hugh's interested in his own pet scientist, no one's going to care. And if he's fucking you too, it's a bonus that'll keep him happy. Still doesn't answer my question."

Paul sets down his fork. He thinks about the bottle of whiskey still on his coffee table, the reagents and _stella_ and the paralyzer, and isn't sure what the missing piece is either. It's not a feeling he's used to, in terms of ensuring his own survival. At his continued silence, Pollard stands and comes around the table. He starts to get up, but her iron grip on his shoulder forces him back down again as she leans on his wrists, pressing them to the arms of the chair and caging him in.

"If I strapped you into that interrogation chair, I could make you scream in agony and wish you were dead. I could draw it out for days, Stamets," her smile is humorless, "make you suffer in ways you can't even imagine and barely shed a drop of blood. You'd tell me anything I wanted to know, just to make it stop."

"So why haven't you?"

"That's not the only way to get answers."

She stares at him for a full minute before releasing his wrists. 

"Sleep on that. I'll be back at 0800."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Philosophical thought: Would Terrans be vegetarians? Or might that be seen as a weakness to exploit.
> 
> Theories on Tracy and why she's saying things that are so...dangerous?


	7. Survival, Part Ten

Pollard shoves her tray back in the synthesizer to recycle after her final threat, exiting without a backward glance. The forcefield springs back to life as soon as the door closes, cutting off any small chance he might have of getting off this shuttle alive any other way besides surviving until they land.

He's lost what remained of his appetite, clearing the table more for something to do than anything. His new uniform is ready, and he folds it to tuck back into his case before sitting on the edge of the bed and taking in his surroundings again. As comfortable as they are, they're still a prison of sorts. A lifetime of caution keeps him from plugging any of his data solids into the workstation to take his mind off things, because he's still not sure this isn't somehow a trick to get a hold of his work, and he doesn't know if the firewall on his PADD designed to keep out Straal's third-rate minions would hold up to state-of-the-art thieving tech.

Had this been a regular transport, there's a good chance he wouldn't even consider sleeping. There's a small supply of neuroprotective synaptic stimulants in his case, enough to keep him reliably awake for up to three days without the usual brain fog. It's not an ideal solution, but he'd rather have to deal with the increased paranoia and irritability from them instead of waking up dead. That being said, this is far from what he expected and he might as well take advantage of the luxuries while they're available.

Standing, he heads back over to the synthesizer. There's no limits on his access, although he's under no illusions that his use is probably being monitored. He scrolls through the menus, dialing up a pair of sleep pants and a long-sleeved shirt before carrying his case into the bathroom and sealing the door. A hot shower would help bring him back down from the hyper-aware jumpiness he can feel crawling under his skin, but he finds himself eyeing the sunken tub with interest. He can't remember the last time he had a bath (ducking into a tank of growth medium during a flashover "accident" in the lab didn't count) and there's no reason for Paul not to indulge. 

It takes the taps a few minutes to fill the tub, during which he brushes his teeth and investigates the cabinets. There's a stack of fluffy towels that are most certainly _not_ the usual linens available and a bottle of lube (he leaves that where it is), but otherwise they're empty. He leaves his case on the bathmat and sets his phaser and weapon belt within easy reach before stepping in. The sense of security with a weapon on hand is a placebo at best - Pollard bursting in to kill him won't matter if he's naked or not, the same if she decides to follow through with her threat and drag him out for interrogation.

The bath is heavenly. Sitting in hot water up to his chest with steam wreathing the room almost lets him forget his trepidation about the whole situation. He doesn't bother with soap, just ducks his head under and revels in the heat penetrating his bones. His skin is going to be a ripe pink when he's done, not that anyone else is here to see it. Closing his eyes would be a risk, so he keeps them open as he leans back and considers everything that's happened.

_What am I going to do?_

_You might as well sleep. Pollard's going to be back in the morning._

He considers and discards the idea of contacting Culber. None of the communication has ever been effectively initiated from his side - even when he's tried, the frequencies won't connect. The shuttle might not be actively jamming transmission, but he's sure they'll be aware if he tries to make a call. 

_Besides, what am I going to say?_

_"Y_ _our escort tried to kill me twice and thinks I know why you keep sending me things."_

_"Why is Pollard so convinced I'm hiding something?"_

At least he knows that they're aware of what his research can do. If they're genuinely interested in his science and are willing to support it, it would give him a modicum of protection and access to better resources. Culber had made that clear with his casual means of obtaining things and offers to take care of Paul's Straal problem. Not that he would have needed a demonstration of ability, and only a fool would turn down an offer from Medical. It seems like the most likely explanation, but he's not sure why Culber needs him to fly to Luna for that. Could it be that Culber is simply used to getting his way, and doesn't think twice about requiring people to come to him?

 _That doesn't explain understanding my work in enough detail to send exactly what I need without me asking for it. Or sounding so disappointed when he had to leave._

Securing his loyalty wouldn't require that. 

_Pollard seems convinced Culber wants to fuck you._

Culber had had ample opportunity though, considering the apparent ease with which he re-programmed Paul's security, and in his experience Imperial physicians don't ask nicely. Besides, that brings him back to the question of what exactly Culber could be attracted to physically, and he's still coming up short. 

The lust he'd felt for Culber even before this all started hasn't gone anywhere, which in itself is troubling enough. His dick, of course, perks up at the thought. The tub is big enough for two, and for a moment, he lets himself imagine Culber on the other side with his broad shoulders and narrow waist. Those dark, dangerous eyes, even imagined, and the memory of his hand on Paul's throat still send a frisson of aroused fear down his spine. Paul's still mostly soft and he has no intention of jerking off here, but giving his cock a few pulls to satisfy that ache is a comfort before returning to turning things over. 

Ten minutes later, he's not any closer to an explanation that covers everything and his own exhaustion is catching up. Paul drains the tub and dries off, dressing and initializing the lock on his case. He's half-surprised Pollard isn't waiting for him again, just a cleaning drone tidying the floor before disappearing into a service panel.

He checks the bed for any surprises and tries hard not to think about the cuffs on the headboard as he turns down the covers. The sheets are crisp and cool, and he sets his PADD with a proximity alarm, debating whether to leave his weapons out on the bedside table. In the end, he sets the paralyzer on the edge of the table and buckles his dagger back on, sliding his phaser back into its holster and turning to sleep on his left side. Paul forces his eyes to close and deliberately blanks his mind, opening his senses up until the whir of forced air and the hum of the engines at warp fade into the background. There's just enough sound filtering through the bulkheads for him to know that other people are onboard, but he'll have to rely on the alarm to alert him if anyone enters.

Turning his face into the pillow, he frowns. Faint traces of the same woodsy scent he picked up the two times he met Culber in person are on the linens. 

_What...?_

He's not going to come to any conclusions that he hasn't already made, and eventually, he relaxes enough to sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Can you imagine functioning with that amount of constant vigilance? Paul's used to everyday wariness - especially watching over his shoulder for Straal - but this is something else entirely. He's a scientist who tries to stay out of the way in general, and the level of backstabbing and paranoia is heightened when he's thrown in with people for whom intrigue is a daily business.
> 
> I debated whether this is more of a filler chapter or not, but I do think it's important to give Paul a bit of a break from Tracy's scrutiny.


	8. Survival, Part Eleven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A glimpse into Paul's past.

_"...Krista..."_

_Paul struggles to turn over, clutching his side. It burns with searing pain every time he breathes, but it's nowhere near as agonizing as the sense of betrayal_

_"Did you really think I- that **anyone** \- gives a fuck about you and your useless projects? Mushrooms in space?"_

_Her boots stop inches from his nose and she crouches, body hiding the mess of his ransacked quarters. He should have known his "old friend" from the Academy was only interested in a promotion, despite effectively pretending otherwise._

_"Why?" he forces between his teeth, nearly whiting out with pain as she twists the dagger still in his side.._

_"I'm stuck on this backwater planet, no way off until Command decides I've earned a place on a ship. You're wasting resources, and wasting space. It's nothing personal," she rolls him onto his back, pinning his arms to the deck with her knees and sitting on his chest, "I'm doing you a favor, Paul, you're too weak to be a leader."_

_The two stab wounds - one between the lower ribs and one underneath angled upwards - have probably punctured his diaphragm. Coupled with Krista's weight, breathing is becoming impossible._

_"...I- trusted..."_

_He breaks off to wheeze, unable to get enough air. Krista_ _runs her bloody fingers through his hair gently, mockingly._

_"It's a pity, really. So smart but so easy to manipulate. I'll miss you," she smiles sweetly, yanking the knife from his side, "but you were just in my way."_

_Paul's vision is graying out, and he struggles ineffectually under her. His own dagger is halfway across the room, and the way she's kneeling on his forearms has his fingers too numb to even think about reaching for his phaser. He thinks he managed to send an SOS on his comm, but it's too late now._

_"It would have all been over for you now if you hadn't come back early."_

_Krista caresses his face with the blade, the hand in his hair yanking his head back to bare his throat._

_"Shhh," she hushes his whimpers, "I'll make it quick, because you_ _did help me on that astrophysics project."_

_Her lips press a horrible parody of a kiss to his forehead as the dagger tucks itself beneath his ear._

_"Goodbye, Pau-"_

_He convulses in pain as Krista suddenly stiffens and topples to the side, blade slicing across his neck as she falls. There's a gush of warm blood, and then darkness._

_When he comes to, he's still on the floor, head lolling as he blinks and tries to focus. The first thing he sees are Krista's staring eyes, the phaser burn on her temple still smoking. He's horribly cold but somehow alive, even if he doesn't have the energy to even raise a hand to check his wounds._

_He moans pitifully, and Justin's concerned face swims into view. Paul thinks he's using a regen on the stab wounds to his side, and assumes he must have closed up Paul's neck first given that he still has a pulse._

_"Still with me, Paul? S_ _orry I wasn't sooner, whatever she did jammed the door circuits."_

_Paul manages to curve his lips in the approximation of a smile._

_"Th- thanks," he croaks._

_"I've got your back," Justin pats his shoulder, "don't worry."_


	9. Survival, Part Twelve

Paul's PADD chirps at him at 0600, tearing him out of a dream. He's disoriented for half a second before he remembers he's not in the relative safety of his own bed, and his eyes slam open while holding perfectly still. Holding his breath, he strains his ears to try to detect if there's anyone else in the room.

Silence, save for his racing heart.

Midnight blue silk sheets.

The plushest mattress and fluffiest pillows he's ever slept on.

Phaser in its holster digging into his right thigh.

More importantly, no Pollard standing there waiting to skewer his balls again. 

_Okay._

Paul slowly exhales, reaching out a hand to retrieve the PADD.

_> > Don't know if Tracy told you, but go ahead and use the synth for whatever you want. _

_> > It's got all of the info from yours plugged in already._

_> > Can I just pick a restaurant? Or do you have one you like._

So far, despite his nonchalance, Culber seems to be going out of his way to make Paul comfortable. His dispatch of the assassin had been clinical in its precision, and while the sense of menace rolling off of him is unmistakable, it's not been directed at him. The fact that Pollard seems by turns hostile and almost amused just adds to the incongruousness of the whole situation. For the moment, despite his instincts protesting, Paul decides to take Culber at face value. If the man wants him dead, it's already far too late and there's not much point in pretending he could escape.

>> Never been to Luna for the food.

>> How did you get my records?

He doesn't have to wait long for a response.

_> > When I was fixing your security. _

Well, that answers that with regards to Culber's hacking ability. Then again, he's probably got access to the most updated tech, and all signs point to him being extremely thorough. It shouldn't be a surprise that he probably copied over everything in Paul's system while he was waiting for him to come home. Oddly, it doesn't feel as threatening as it does...curious. Paul's been vigilant for an ulterior motive, but one hasn't surfaced yet in Culber's excitement every time Paul opens one of his gifts. He really can’t decide whether the thorough investigation of his (apparently) entire existence is a frightening display of power and ability, or somehow almost friendly in a way. 

_Probably both._

>> I see.

That seems too terse, so he adds:

>> Nice tub.

That's not a lie.

_> > Like my bed?_

Whatever Paul thought was coming next, that certainly isn't it. He stares at the PADD, waiting for his eyes to rearrange the words into something else, but of course it doesn't. That explains entirely too rationally why he thought the sheets smelled like Culber. With that realization, something tightens in his groin and he glares down at his crotch while deliberately not thinking about the restraints built into the bedframe and the possibility of surveillance.

>> It's comfortable. Thank you.

_> > Have to go take care of a few things._

_> > Tracy will tell you where to go._

_> > Watch your back, Stamets._

Paul really, really hopes that it's Culber's standard salutation and not a warning about the others on the shuttle with him.

_Great._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lethal assassin or not, I couldn't resist Hugh trying to continue flirting in a clumsy Terran way.


	10. Survival, Part Thirteen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dialogue-heavy. Contains brief reference to torture.

Sitting in bed thinking isn't going to get him anywhere, especially with Culber's warning echoing in his head. The warm sheets are entirely too comfortable, lulling him into a sense of drowsiness he can't afford. With a quiet groan, Paul reluctantly rolls off the bed and gathers his uniform and armor from the floor beside it before heading into the bathroom. After using the facilities and brushing his teeth, he briefly removes his belt and phaser holster and dresses properly, then buckles them back on along with his armor. An unfamiliar part of him wants to relax into the apparent safety, but he knows better than to trust it. 

Instead, he synthesizes himself a cup of coffee and unlocks one of his PADDs. The firewall is still active, and he carefully selects a few equations to work on that wouldn't mean anything without the rest of his research for context. According to Pollard, they seem to be interested in energy access rather than biomechanics, so he might as well see if he can make any progress. There's a cushioned chair beside the viewport that he settles into, tapping calculations into the PADD with one hand and on the mug with the other. 

Pollard arrives at exactly 0800 to find him finishing his second cup of coffee beside the remains of breakfast. She seems more relaxed this morning, although that's all relative and he's still sure to keep an eye on her hands as she sits down across from him and commences staring. He refuses to show how intimidated he actually is, casually finishing his simulation before lowering the PADD to look over.

"Pollard."

"Well. I can't say I'd agree with Hugh's taste," she smirks, "but he's right about you being too forgiving."

"...what?"

"Your friend Straal tried to contact Command again. Seems he thinks he has a full copy of your data, and transmitted it to them with some of the worst encryption I've seen."

If it's a goad, he's not falling for it. And if it's true, chances are he probably wasted at least a week de-fragging the corrupted data set Paul left floating just carelessly enough to attract Straal's attention.

"Well," Paul shrugs, "he never was the best at programming."

"Given that analysis suggests his code structure is a much less sophisticated version of yours, I'm going to guess that you were stupid enough to teach him."

_Yeah, you really were._

He doesn't ask how Pollard intercepted Straal's transmission or why she bothered to analyze it. 

"Twelve years ago, it seemed like an investment."

Her eyes narrow, examining his face carefully. 

"I know Hugh's asked, but why the hell is he still alive after he tried to kill you? More than once. You don't actually seem to be a coward."

She sounds genuinely curious, but it's too early for a sincere compliment, especially one that doesn't seem to have any motive. 

"If you don't like getting your hands messy," Pollard props her feet on the ledge under the viewport, "Hugh did offer to deal with him."

He doesn't have an answer he's willing to voice, not when it would expose the sentiment he's still holding onto by his fingernails, Justin's ghost in the periphery of his vision every time he contemplates removing Straal from the equation.

"Last night you didn't particularly seem to agree with Culber helping me."

"Let's say, you're not what I expected, Stamets."

"Oh?"

Her shoulder tenses, and he deflects her hand with his forearm when she feints at his face. It's starting to feel like Pollard is just enjoying throwing him off balance.

"Well. You're not a trained assassin, and you're not looking for a promotion. Hugh says you're not fucking, so I'm trying to see the appeal."

_That makes two of us. And why does she keep assuming we're having sex?_

"He has a type?"

It's laced with sarcasm, but Paul really, _really_ would like to know the answer to that.

Pollard snorts.

"You're not it."

"Mmm."

"He's interested in you. And you're not doing anything about it."

_No, because I'm trying to figure out why a vicious bastard like Culber wants to send me presents._

He sets down the PADD.

"What exactly does he want?"

"He wants you," she states, her tone conveying _'obviously'._

"Why?"

"You're going to have to talk to him about that. Frankly, I'm still not convinced you're not a waste of my time. I wanted to shove an electrode up your ass and find out, but Hugh wouldn't be happy if I accidentally damaged anything."

"I do appreciate that."

Given the sizable probes he'd seen laid out, there's a distinct possibility that it's not a threat for show. The casual brutality is exactly why he doesn't want a posting on one of the core worlds, or anywhere near the court.

"You actually do."

"Do you think I'm stupid enough to lie to you?"

Pollard swings her feet down and stares at him again.

"No. Hugh doesn't think so either. And that worries me."


	11. Survival, Part Fourteen

The shuttle glides into the port on Luna at 0408, touching down more smoothly than any transport Paul's ever been on. He's ready and waiting well before they pass the boundaries of Sol, travel case on the bed and all of his armor and weapons in place. There's a pang of genuine regret that he's leaving behind the most comfortable bed he's ever slept in, and even knowing it's Culber's doesn't do anything to dampen things. Too much comfort is dangerous, lulling him away from awareness and no Terran could afford that if they want to live.

He'd spent another six of the last twenty hours sleeping between those sheets, dreamless but with a growing sense of anxiety the closer they get. Not that he was particularly certain before of Culber's motives, but Pollard's behavior throws everything even more in question. She'd stared at him for the better part of two hours after her last threat, asking pointed questions about his contacts. While she wasn't doing anything so obvious as consulting a list on a PADD, the concentration and lack of surprise on her face told him that it was more confirmation than information gathering.

_("Why do you want to know?" he'd asked._

_"So we can offer to polish their daggers. Why do you think?"_

_He has to hand it to her - his own skill with sarcasm isn't inconsiderable, but Pollard's weaponized it._

_"Because Hugh wants to be sure you're safe," she'd answered at last, expression somewhere between frustrated and incredulous, "and since you're not helpless, that means something else, doesn't it?")_

When she finally left him to his own devices, it was to consider yet again just what he's going to do with Straal. With any luck, the code embedded in the corrupted data would be busy crashing his archives as it searched for and removed every bit of Paul's actual work from Straal's system. It's not a guarantee, but it's at least a stopgap. Part of him wants to yield to Culber's insistence and just be done with him once and for all. On the other hand, that makes further debt that he can't commit to until he has a better idea of what it is that Culber wants to discuss. 

_Maybe he'll get tired of waiting and just do it as another gift._

He doesn't hear from Culber again while in transit, continuing to work on simulations as a means to keep his brain occupied. If somehow he and Pollard actually are genuinely interested in his science, he needs to have something to show them that's better than the carefully redacted and narrow data sets he sends to Command. Paul's not looking forward to finding out just how adroitly he's going to have to maneuver around the court politics and schemes that seem to rule every action and interaction this near to Terra.

Pollard is waiting for him as the engines power into standby, face impassive as the guards flank the doorway again. They're on the far end of Luna's busy spaceport, although the platform before them is much less crowded than the other sections, owing to the heavily armed soldiers standing watch. He doesn't quite balk at the sight, but Pollard must pick up on it anyway, because she clamps a hand around his bicep to keep him from lagging behind.

"Out of my way," she snaps at the soldiers as she drags Paul past them, and they move aside immediately. 

Her red uniform is just as intimidating here as on the outer worlds, the crowds around them leaving a large buffer of space as she stalks through the terminals with a hand on her phaser. It's exceedingly odd for someone used to being either ignored or derided to have people seem afraid of _him_ by apparent association with an Imperial physician, but if it means no one wants to be caught looking his direction, then he's more than happy to avoid scrutiny. 

Pollard doesn't let go of his arm until they're seated inside a sleek black flitter, and he can't quite shake the feeling that she was being deliberately less harsh with her bruising grip. The Imperial Medical Corps insignia on the craft is much smaller than the shuttle, although still obvious on the hull. Climbing in, he doesn't miss the secondary shield generator or phaser array mounted just below the engines and what looks suspiciously like ablative plating around the frame. His lips tingle, and he takes in the polished paneling and leather upholstery of the cabin, clearly designed for indulgent comfort as well as protection. The hatches seal, systems coming online and beginning to circulate air that carries the same hint of spice and musk as the bedsheets. 

_Culber's bed...this must be his flitter._

"Where are we going?"

She ignores him as she taps a set of commands into the nav computer, and he's surprised when the flitter's engines initialize but the autopilot doesn't engage. Instead, she takes the controls manually, lifting off and turning east out of the spaceport in a tight arc that presses him against the hatch until the dampeners compensate. Her comm chirps two minutes after they lift off.

_"Culber to Pollard."_

"Impatient?"

_"Yes."_

"I'm bringing you your pet scientist," she smirks, "I even left him in one piece."

 _"What-"_ Culber starts, and Paul's shocked at the way Pollard just laughs at the menace in his tone, _"I meant it when I asked for him safe."_

She steers the flitter into a sloping turn, and Paul's treated to the sight of Terra sweeping across the front windows.

_"Did you talk to him?"_

"About what?"

_"My offer."_

"No, you can do that. I didn't cut off his dick or anything. He's not much to look at though, is he?"

Paul opens his mouth to say something, but Culber beats him to it.

_"Tracy, if you fuck this up for me-"_

"Oh relax, Hugh. You can make sure everything is still attached soon."

Her blasé attitude is, frankly, terrifying.

 _"Fine. You know-"_ his voice fades for a moment, and he snaps an order that's not quite intelligible across the comm, _"I'm not quite done here yet."_

"Am I supposed to babysit him while you're busy?"

_"Thirty minutes. Then I'll change and meet you there."_

"You're going to change."

_"Yes."_

"Why?"

 _"Because someone,"_ Culber's tone suggests that Pollard knows exactly who he's referring to, _"_ _bled all over my pants and I want to wash it off my dick before I eat."_

"Why waste time? I could just chain him to your bed," she adds, "wouldn't have to bother with eating anything first."

He stiffens at the implied threat even as Culber responds to her suggestion with a growl, and Pollard gives Paul an indecipherable look.

_"No."_

"Fine."

_"You know where to go, right?"_

"Hugh, get the fuck off the comm and finish up. The faster you're done, the faster I can offload your pet."

Paul comes to the disturbing conclusion that while she's goading Culber, it doesn't seem to have the same sneer he's used to in watching power plays. Instead, the more his voice sharpens, the more amused she seems, as if it's no more than a game. Anyone else, he would expect to find them conveniently dead for taking that tone with a medical officer, although he honestly has no idea what goes on within the Medical Corps. 

_And you never wanted to find out, remember?_

With another monosyllabic grunt, Culber closes the channel and Pollard puts both hands back on the controls.

"Stamets."

He turns to look at her fully, hoping the dim cabin lighting will obscure how tightly he's holding onto the handle of his travel case.

"Hugh's not in the best of moods today. Looks like you're in for a treat."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Writing this bridging chapter was the hardest so far. Ugh. But on to the part we've all been waiting for next...


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Contains a brief reference to sex work.

Paul spends an uncomfortable amount of time in silence next to Pollard in the flitter. She doesn't seem to be in any hurry to touch down, lazy turns that he realizes are circling the city below. He taps his thumbs against his palms, hidden by the case on his lap, wondering how thirty minutes feels like hours. Eventually though, her comm chirps with a notification and she points the nose of the flitter at the brightest cluster of lights amidst the dark grey buildings.

He's glad to be standing again, muscles protesting sitting tensely for so long. Pollard seals the hatch behind them, then strides off without waiting to see if Paul is actually behind her or not. She leads him through an empty park, past a few other people who avert their eyes, then inside one of the non-descript buildings and up to the twenty-eighth floor. 

Culber meets them outside a very exclusive restaurant, nodding at him without any body language to indicate anything beyond a professional association. It’s a prudent precaution, one that wouldn’t give any information to spying eyes. Paul hasn’t met with anyone socially in years, other than the occasions that Straal demands they go to a bar, and shivers with the reminder of what happened the last time he did on the night he met Culber. The doctor turns for them to follow, hand casually resting on his phaser and the other hanging deceptively loosely at his side. Paul doesn't doubt for a moment that he's probably carrying more concealed weapons than the tight uniform suggests. He's just as intimidating as Paul remembers, and he clutches his small case tighter as if it could be used to protect him against either of the two walking beside him. 

There's a standard weapons scanner at the door of the restaurant in front of them, but Pollard's firm grip on his elbow steers him around to a smaller entranceway that bypasses the security measures altogether. 

_What have you gotten into?_

“Doctor Culber, Doctor Pollard” the host inclines her head, sharp eyes taking Paul in with a glance, “Commander.” 

“Long live the Emperor,” Culber professes the expected sentiment, echoed by the others.

The host folds her hands in front of her, resting on the console. 

”Will you be dining together, or do you require a private room?”

Paul isn’t sure if there’s actually going to be food involved, although the tension in his stomach means he’s not terribly hungry. Not to mention, while it's after 2130 local time, his body still thinks it's far too early in the morning to be contemplating anything besides coffee. 

“Both, and no questions.”

It doesn’t look like the kind of establishment where questions are asked, but the host merely gives them a nod that turns into a thin smile when Hugh presses a small vial into her hand.

"For your brother. I hope he...enjoys what he's earned."

”Of course, Doctor.”

Culber falls silent but with a surprising hand ghosting at the small of Paul’s back as the host presses a control and guides them past a dozen or so other diners into a private room. Even the Imperial elite seem uneasy with the appearance of red uniforms, eyes narrowing and hands moving to dagger hilts while avoiding Pollard's sharp glances. Culber radiates menace and control, but Pollard's cold stare could freeze over boiling lava.

Instead of the stately oak furnishings outside, there’s low couches and lounge chairs surrounding a single marble-topped table on a plush carpet in the room past the paneled door. The lighting is muted, and he notices the walls are elliptical, no corners for shadows (and presumably ambushes) to lurk. All of the upholstery is dark leather - easy to wipe clean - and it feels...dangerous. This is very much a room for high-level business and intimate gatherings.

The host gives Paul another blank, assessing glance before addressing Culber again.

”Will you require full service? I can have a selection sent in if your guest has an...appetite. Or a couple of specials this week that you might appreciate, Doctor. Standard commission fees.”

Paul blinks as Pollard and Culber exchange an opaque look.

”No, not tonight.”

The host taps the edge of the table to call up the menu holo-display, dips her head, then turns and leaves. 

Pollard raises an eyebrow at Paul's hastily-hidden bemusement.

"Unless you're interested in fucking someone before we start talking?"

Oh. _That_ kind of service, reserved for the upper tiers of society. 

Culber taps the control panel to seal the doors, and his seeming disinterest in Paul dissolves as soon as the lock is engaged. He prowls closer, and again Paul finds himself transfixed by the intensity of his stare. Paul stands his ground, decades of training keeping him from backing up as instinct demands. Culber is fondling the hilt of his dagger in a way that would be suggestive in other circumstances, and Paul's eyes dart down to see that his other hand is empty, palm facing forward in a gesture of openness incongruous with his otherwise dominating physical presence. Full lips curve in a dangerous, enigmatic smile, but there's something inexplicable about his expression as well. If Paul didn't know better, he'd think it was softness. 

In his peripheral vision, Pollard is watching them with narrowed eyes, but he ignores her for the time being as Culber doesn't stop until the toes of their boots are touching. He smells freshly-showered, uniform uncreased with artfully smudged kohl beneath his eyes. Once again, he tilts his head to the side and closes his eyes for a moment, breathing in deeply.

_Is he...sniffing you?_

Culber's own scent is strong, smoky and enticing, and he's glad that he's far too anxious for his dick to twitch. Paul wonders if one of the doctor's many weapons in his arsenal is some form of chemical attractant designed to seduce and distract the unaware. 

He hums quietly to himself as if satisfied, then raises his hand. Paul controls his flinch, although he's sure both of the others picked up the twitch in his shoulders. Culber traces his cheek with a fingertip, leaving a trail of heat in its wake as he follows the line of Paul's jaw and down the side of his neck to rest over the pulse in his throat. There's no hiding the fact that his heart is racing, fight-or-flight roused and balanced on the knife's edge between them, and Culber frowns a little. 

"You're scared."

Paul expects him to say something else, but Culber seems to be waiting for a response. It takes a nervous swallow, Adam's apple bobbing under Culber's thumb, before he finds his voice.

"Yes."

"Why?"

Culber sounds genuinely curious, and there's really no point to lying now, is there?

"Because I'm in a locked room with two Imperial physicians."

Something flickers over Culber's face, a strange mix of disappointment and amusement.

"I promise I'm not going to hurt you," he murmurs, the breath of his words tickling Paul's lips, "I just wanted to talk."

"I-"

"Can't say the same about me."

They both start at the sound of Pollard's voice despite the fact that it would be impossible to forget her presence. Whatever spell Culber was weaving is broken when he takes a step back, features settling into the mask of casual power Paul recognizes from earlier. Pollard turns on her heel and stalks over to the sideboard, pouring two glasses of wine, extending one to Culber and keeping the other. Paul wonders if it's a subtle snub, until Culber takes a long drink and then offers his own glass.

_Clever. Proof there isn't anything 'special' about it._

Of course it could be smeared on the rim where Culber's lips hadn't touched, or any number of other things, but Paul knows there were a dozen ways Pollard could have left him bleeding out long before Luna, and an elaborate ploy to drug or poison him seems unlikely. It turns out to be a sweet port, thick and syrupy against his tongue as the alcohol stings the inside of his mouth, and much higher quality than anything he's ever had. He doesn't miss the way that Culber's fingers brush the back of his hand when he accepts the glass back, eyes never leaving Paul's face as he raises it to drink again. 

Judging by her continued stare, Pollard didn't either.

"Tracy talked to you?"

"She tried to cut my balls off."

"Mmm," Culber seems fondly annoyed, "yes, she would have."

Pollard smirks as Paul shifts on his feet at the memory.

"He didn't piss himself when I did," she comments, sounding grudgingly impressed, "knife skills could use some work, and his balls are probably still sore."

 _"Tracy,"_ Culber tilts his head to the side, speaking through his teeth, "what are you trying to do?"

"Making sure I didn't need to clean up one of your messes."

"Oh?"

_...how often does she have to do that, and what does that even **mean?**_

"He, as impossible as it sounds, seems to be exactly what he appears to be, minus the incompetence from his associates. Had to be sure he was telling the truth about it."

A flash of irritation.

"I told you he was."

"Men are the most honest when their manhood is on the line," she scoffs, "better than torture, really."

"And?"

"And I think you really are both as stupid as you look."

Paul cringes, waiting for Culber's reaction. His laugh is completely unexpected, rich and loud. It transforms his face, the lines around his eyes and mouth that Paul associates with sneers and glaring falling easily into mirth.

"Well. Now that's settled, I'm hungry."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Terran business meetings include dinner and sex, apparently. I don't know where exactly that came from, but it seemed appropriate so I left it in.


End file.
